Their Dance
by began-to-climb
Summary: Michael knew they'd always be dancing. ONESHOT


**Name: **Their Dance

**Rating: **PG

**Summary: **Michael knew; they'd always be dancing.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own these characters.

**Authors Note: **This piece contains spoilers for episode 19, the Key. It's my take on a very _special _Michael and Sara moment.

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He watched her through the guarded window, how her slender frame curved around unseen objects. She danced serpentines and figure eight's, paper in hand, her curls brushing her shoulders. This was her stage…he was her partner. Her eyes skimmed the words in her hands, but she didn't look at him, even when she entered.

A glimpse of shattered diamonds flashed as she passed through a patch of light. Clouds that threatened the storm from the north enclosed the haunted prison. Shadows crept over the yard. All corners became instantly dark. Only a sliver of sunlight fought through the density, raying down on the room that tentatively held a tattooed prisoner. His ocean eyes turned back to her at the sudden sound of a screen being drawn, intertwined with her footsteps. He heels elegantly clomped.

They were alone.

She refused to look at him, but kept focus on the necessities of the appointment. She set down the clipboard brimmed with papers and moved towards the tray beside the examination table. She ripped open a bag. The necklace adorning her neck dangled helplessly in the tensioned air, swaying to and fro. She didn't move to stop it. He watched it intently, absorbing the shape and quality of the ring, then flickered up to her. His lips parted, hoping to say something to her. She circled him. His prison shirt lay beside him. With one hand hovered over his flesh, tickling the naked warmth, she lightly dabbed the medicine onto his burnt skin.

Blood smeared over the intricate scene of angelic angels and holy, jumping the demons from hidden quarters. It was war. She didn't ask how the bandage had been removed; she knew him well enough to know it was self-inflicted. Even if the question lingered, he wouldn't give her answers. This man wouldn't let her in. She pushed for him to open, but he snapped closed. He had answers; she sought them…their dance repeated.

A loss his gurgled in his throat as she grazed a sensitive spot. In that moment, the pain of a then flesh wound seared his body. He gripped the edge of the bed tighter. He glanced over his shoulder at her, his body betraying him under the soothing massage of her touch. His heart pulled painfully; she still wouldn't look at him. She wound back to her original place, lifting the brown bottle.

No words were spoken between them. Words only clung tighter, dug deeper, slashing open new scars. Their words and emotions were spoken in their actions. A connection of the eyes here, small laughs there…a sweet caress of the hand. This was their dance, remedied by a melancholy lullaby. They sidestepped one another in a flawless routine, dodging inquiries and accusations. Pain was laced in their eyes at every mistake, at every closed secret. He shut her out and it hurt him to have to keep her away. He didn't expect her when he walked through those doors; he didn't expect to find someone else he could love. He did love her and that was why he kept her at a distance. She couldn't get involved.

His gaze had glassed over, his mind trailed to other things, so he didn't see her falter. He blinked, inhaling himself back to reality, and she whirled around. His hand twitched. She stopped, staring into his eyes, face to face with him. She didn't have time to react; he captured her lips.

Her eyes immediately closed and responded. The taste of the salt on his lips, the velvet touch against her skin…the sensation of electric charge as he slid his tongue across her bottom lip. She sighed. He lost himself in the moment; accidentally slipping farther then he dared wanted himself to. He intensified the kiss, seeking permission to be closer. She granted entrance; her hand cupped his cheek. She met him halfway.

Their dance is a collage of the emotions that can result each other to. One fraudulent step can cause a silence between them or an unneeded flow of tears. He knows the love he feels for her is a weakness in prison, a game no man should endure. But each day he gets to be near her, to hear her voice or to smell her perfume, he wonders. What would have happened if he'd never come to this place? This room? Would they have met? He doesn't want to keep this dance; he wants their dance to change. But one kiss can change everything.

The kiss slowed and she drew back, her labored breathing from the surprise of kiss catching in her throat. They kept their eyes on each other, waiting for the other to be the first to talk. She saw his eyes dart to her lips. If he could just…once more…

She laughed, a smile spreading across her lips, and bowed her head. Her hands rested of either side of his neck, delicate fingers lined together. He gazed at her. She returned the gaze. A fault of insecurity and uncertainty came over her. For the first time, she didn't know what to do. "Michael…"

Thoughts left his mind at the sound of his name passed between her lips. His lips closed and he swallowed. Something was coming, something elaborate and planned. The hardest thing about saying hello is saying good-bye. He didn't want to have to leave her, but what could he do? She drew closer to her, wishing beyond hope that she could feel his lips again.

His voice stopped her. "Sara…"

His hesitation strained her nerves. She dropped her hands and he dropped his head, feeling the weight of this situation he had inflicted. He was like a defeated lover caught in a quandary that couldn't be solved.

He tilted his head, his breath reaching her lips. "I need you to do something for me."

His inquiry startled her. She nodded. "What?"

He looked away from her again, searching for the different words from the ones he wanted to say. She noted his pause and tenderly stroked his cheek for comfort. The words clawed to come out. Her hand stroked his cheek, brushing his ears. Her care for him was echoed in her movements.

The words came out in three simple words. "Wait for me." he asked.

Her eyes widened for a second, taken back by the force of the plead. Had that really just been said? He cupped her face, tangling his fingers in her hair. Grasped onto each other, they drew near. The position would have startled anyone, but they needed this. This moment and these touches…these were what Michael wanted, what they needed. The adventure of their dance was getting more private.

He poised his lips over hers. "It can't always be like this. This room, this place." He was pleading, begging for her to accept what they could have. His voice cracked.

Sara took his hand in hers and brought it to her lips. She gently kissed his knuckle, brushing his fingers. Michael's lips quivered. She smiled sadly at him, placing distance between them. A strand of red hair caught on the corner of her lip. The kiss was right, but the place felt wrong. "Until then I can't."

He opened his mouth to say something, to protest, to tell her of what could be and the future that could be theirs. What they could be. They could be immortal. She was clearing the floor before the dance was over. She took another step back. "I can't."

A bulgy man in white entered the room, interrupting something personal. She took two more steps back as they both glanced at the man. Tears welled up in her eyes. She sniffed. Her heart was tearing; she didn't say no. He stared at her. "I gotta go."

She hastened out of the room; suddenly feeling suffocated with his presence. The door couldn't have been father away. She collapsed against the wall in her office. Her weight slid her down the white wall. Tears leaked down her cheeks. He sat in the room, abandoned, left alone. His shoulders were limp under defeat. He swallowed, holding back his own tears. His eyes traveled to the door she had disappeared through.

Their dance was they games they played, but the truths they avoided. For now the dance was over. But Michael knew; they'd always be dancing.

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End file.
